“I told you not to put it off.”
“I know.”
“And now look where you are.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You could have arrived home on time…”
“I know.”
“And safe…”
“I know Dad!”
“But here you are with me in the hospital.”
“Hmph.”
…
“Wait, I know my tire flew off on the highway and I crashed because I didn’t take it to the mechanic on time, but why are you here again Dad?”
“I broke my pelvis.”
“Your pelvis? How?”
…
“Dad?”
“You remember that step your mother asked me to fix three weeks ago?”
Let me tell you a secret. It’s a naughty secret, a nasty secret. It will chill you to your bones.
Let me whisper it softly in your ear. Come on, you can’t resist. Can you?
Now remember, this is an important secret. If you tell, it will change the world as we know it. Yes. It’s that important.
And trust me, only you will know.
I have faith in you, my friend, to keep this secret to yourself, forever more.
Are you ready?
Are you sure?
…
…
…
The tooth fairy is Santa Claus in drag.
I always think of you, when I stand among the daffodils. The way their heavy heads bob on the breeze reminds me of when you agreed with me that one time. Do you remember?
I think we were driving to Niagara Falls. It was the first really warm day and the humidity was rising out of the ground from the rainfall we’d had earlier that morning. I remember that little detail, because, as I got into the car I stepped in a puddle and soaked my left sock… or was it the right one? No matter.
Anyway, we were on the QEW, approaching Burlington and the sun was coming up. It shone in the rearview mirror and just about blinded me and I said, “It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”
That was when you nodded, and I thought of the daffodils.
And then we hit the patch of oil on the bridge. It was a long drop.
I miss you, mostly because it ended so perfectly.
I spend all my time stepping over boxes. I’m always on the move. Packing and packing some more, stepping over boxes to get to other boxes – organizing what goes in here and which part goes in there.
The ones with the heads leak a lot.
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Sitting by the fire, you work your fingers to the bone, but your mind is ages away. In your head you hear music; it sounds so foreign as to make you believe you could be insane. But it doesn’t stop. In your mind you compose symphonies in crashes and whines like the screams of frightened livestock. You want to tell me of these auditory ‘visions’ but there is no way to explain them. Instead you hum as you work, wishing there was at least some way to record what you compose.
Perhaps in another lifetime…
Ah, your screams are music to my ears. That is to say I love to frighten you outta your erps. What does that mean, exactly, you ask?
Well, some may say I’m trying to scare the fear out of you. “E”xposure and “R”esponse “P”revention, like. Meaning the more I expose you to having your wits jump right outta your skull, the more you’ll come to expect it and therefore, not be so fearful.
On the other hand, when my dad used to say it to me, many years ago, I don’t know if that sort of therapy was in practice. Maybe he just thought it sounded funny.
So I’ll keep doin’ it. Scarin’ you outta your erps. Just for laughs.
What’s a momma for, after all?
I am walking along a deserted street. It is daytime and inside the houses, dogs whine, expectant; the driveways empty of cars that instead are offhandedly whiling away dollars in dirty parking lots. The autumn wind blows beneath an overcast sky and the remaining leaves rustle like bones turning to dust in drafty mausoleums. I think that you are following me.
Footsteps plod along behind me to the rhythm of my own and your icy stare crawls up my spine like an eight-legged ghoul. I increase my speed, unwilling to look over my shoulder. To envision you there is horror enough: to see you there will turn me to mortar.
In my dreams I am unable to run fast enough and I awake with a film of cold sweat coating my skin. I turn and see the silhouette of your shoulder under the covers in the bed beside me, framed by moonlight and I awake yet again, relieved to find I am alone.
But now I am sure. I feel static in the air as your hand reaches out. Your dry palm scratches against the fabric on the shoulder of my coat. I crumble, screaming, screaming at the top of my lungs. I awake.
I glance at the dog. He whines, expectant.
Sarcasm drips so easily from your palate to your tongue that it’s hard to keep up with you. But I try.
“So you’re saying you don’t want broccoli for dinner tonight?”
“Oh yes, I love broccoli. I love to look at it and smell it and do all kinds of naughty things with it.”
I slow my speech. “So, you’re saying, you don’t want broccoli, for dinner tonight?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
“I’ll do beans.”
“NO! NO! I don’t want beans, I want broccoli, you stupid bitch!”
I long for you to grow out of the terrible twos.
At the fish market, Jim decided that his choice of superpower – the power to smell any pussy at less than a hundred yards – wasn’t necessarily the best choice.
…because, you know, cats like to hang around fish markets, and most of them have bad breath…
I read the story in the car, in a parking lot, while my husband went into the building for an interview. The story was set in an apocalyptic world. Two people, believing the world was about to end, made love like there was no tomorrow. And then they lived to tell about it.
Linda G. Hill 